


Muted

by deathtouchwlw (deathtouch)



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Exhibitionism, F/F, Fingerfucking, Invisibility, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:55:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22781341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathtouch/pseuds/deathtouchwlw
Summary: Femfeb 2020 | FanficInvisibility comes in handy when someone walks in on Sombra and Widowmaker while they're having sex.
Relationships: Sombra | Olivia Colomar/Widowmaker | Amélie Lacroix
Comments: 2
Kudos: 70





	Muted

**Author's Note:**

> unbeta'd! all mistakes are my own.

A cascade of purple shimmering light solidifying into something visible beside her is distracting enough to make Widowmaker miss her mark by three centimeters. She feels a low sensation of anger but it’s muted, muffled. It always is. Sombra’s image manifests, kicked back and relaxed against the nearest firing lane divider. 

“How long you been at it?” She asks. 

“How long have you been watching?” Widowmaker asks back.

She checks her clip, frowns at its emptiness and proceeds to discard it, exchanging it for a full one. The click of the ammunition snapping satisfyingly into place would make a lesser person flinch. Neither Widowmaker nor Sombra do. 

“You’re too tense,” Sombra says nonchalantly, offering up her opinion before Widowmaker starts another round of target practice. “You gotta learn to relax.” 

Widowmaker’s lip nearly curls. “What would you know about it?” 

Sombra’s the tech support. She pushes buttons on keyboards. She barely fires her sidearm on missions, and when she does her aim is unimpressive. Widowmaker is the one of the top assassins in the world, and a renowned sniper. She doesn’t need any of Sombra’s advice. Do the people flipping burgers at fast food restaurants try to tell gourmet chefs how to do their jobs? 

Widowmaker pulls her weapon into firing position and stares down the scope as Sombra begins speaking, aiming her crosshairs at the target at the opposite end of the range. She’s pretending to be only half interested in this conversation

“I might not know much about shooting guns,” Sombra concedes. Might not. Tch. “But I know plenty about you.” 

Widowmaker can only pretend so much. She’s barely got her shot squared up when she abandons setting her sights to cast Sombra a glare. 

Sombra walks her fingers up Widowmakers arm. She taps her nails as she goes. She’s got a smirk on her face that makes her look like the cat that got the cream. A smirk that tells Widowmaker everything. 

_I know plenty about you._ She’s not talking about information found in files; documents, medical reports, or mission debriefs. She’s talking about Widowmaker’s body; the way she looks without her clothes on, the face she makes when she’s having an orgasm, and the soft sounds that escape her as she comes. 

Sombra knows better than anyone. 

“One time.” Widowmaker’s time turns dismissive. “One time I let you fuck me. Now you think you know everything? Don’t make me laugh.” 

Sombra just shrugs, casual as ever. She pushes off from the firing lane divider, circling around to the back of Widowmaker’s body. “Nah. Not everything. But I know enough. I definitely know what you like.” 

She strokes a hand over Widowmaker’s hip, palm warm. She slides her fingers frontward, reaching around to touch precisely what she wants to touch. She palms Widowmaker through her clothes, pressing her fingers in so she can feel and be felt through the layers of fabric. 

She pets and rubs and strokes so sweetly, teasing for as long as she likes. When she’s ready to move on, her hand slides back up. Her fingertips catch in the waistband of Widowmaker’s pants, dipping curiously underneath. 

Widowmaker should tell her off; tell her to leave. Instead her breath catches in her throat. She wants more. 

She realizes she should abandon the weapon she’s been clutching tighter and tighter as Sombra’s been touching her. Muscle memory automatically moves to turn the safety on before she sets the rifle aside. There’s a small shelf in each firing lane booth to rest equipment on and to prevent anyone from wandering aimlessly downrange. She lays her weapon down on it and grips the edge of the shelf with tight fingers.

She can feel Sombra’s lips on her. She can feel the warmth of them through the thin fabric of her shirt. She can feel kisses as they’re pressed to the knot of her spine just below the base of her neck. Sombra’s hand slides further down, slipping beneath Widowmaker’s underwear as she goes. Incessant fingertips begin stroking over the soft hair between her legs, the lips of her vulva, and the wet, pink folds between them. 

It feels good to be touched. Widowmaker hates how much she enjoys it. The feeling is as muted as all her others but she can sense it simmering there beneath the cold of her skin, so close to the surface it’s almost real. Sombra knows just what she’s doing with those fingers of hers, and Widowmaker is embarrassingly weak to it. 

“Relax.” Sombra murmurs into the fabric of her shirt, lips at her shoulder blade. She strokes knowingly over Widowmaker’s sensitive clit with her fingers. It’s a little awkward to do while standing but it still feels good. It sends tingles of pleasure and warmth radiating from Widowmaker’s sex. 

It’s that warmth she craves, internal but almost strong enough to warm her on the outside. It’s that feeling of joy and pleasure she wants, almost strong enough to break through her conditioning. It’s Sombra she’s desperate for. 

A noise in the hall catches both their attention. Widowmaker willfully ignores it to focus instead on the fingers fucking her. Except then the door to the range cracks open loudly and she all but gasps in surprise, gripping the shelf in front of her harder. 

They’ve been caught. It’s probably a good thing she can’t feel mortification either, just a dull sense of shame. Not enough shame to snuff out the flame of excitement and pleasure coursing through her. Apparently Sombra isn’t feeling any shame either. Or, at least, not enough to stop because she is still fingering her as if they haven’t just been interrupted… 

“Ah.” Moira’s lilting Irish accent cuts across the shooting range. “Have you seen Sombra?” 

Widowmaker casts a dark glance over her shoulder, catching sight of the labcoat clad figure standing in the doorway. There is no glimpse of Sombra to be seen behind her; no lilac hair, no cheeky smile, no vibrant clothing. Widowmaker can still feel her though. She can feel her lips and her hand and her fingers. God, her fingers. Still stroking, still working diligently to coax out an orgasm. 

Widowmaker chokes on her words. “No,” she manages to say. 

Moira takes a sweeping glance around, harrumphs, and shrugs. She exits, closing the door, leaving Widowmaker be. 

“That was close,” Sombra laughs. Her voice is crystal clear but there is no sight of her, stealth tech making her invisible. 

‘So am I,’ Widowmaker thinks, respecting herself too much to make the joke aloud. 

“Finish it,” she demands. 

Sombra doesn’t need to be told twice. She focuses her efforts, circling Widowmaker’s sensitive clit with all new fervor. It’s fast and desperate and exactly what she needs. She grips the shelf so tight her knuckles go pale. Her legs are shaking, knees weak. 

She’s so close. 

So close. 

The firing range door suddenly creaks open again, so suddenly that Widowmaker can’t stop. Moira leans in from the open doorway as Widowmaker comes with a muffled cry. Her legs tremble as waves of pleasure wash over her. She can feel the hot rush of her orgasm burning through her, and for a split second she doesn’t feel cold. She doesn’t feel empty or lifeless or blank inside. It’s a welcome relief, and she wishes she could wallow in it, but of course the sensation is gone too soon. 

She just barely catches the tail end of what Moira is saying. “...-er to come find me if you see her?” 

“Fine.” Widowmaker rasps. Anything to make her leave. 

Moira narrows her eyes for a moment, looks her up and down, but apparently she decides that nothing is amiss because she leaves much in the way she did the first time. As soon as privacy is granted again a shimmering of purple light sparkles in the corner of Widowmaker’s eye. The image of Sombra manifests behind her, glittering over her shoulder. Now she catches the glimpses she couldn’t find before; purple hair, purple clothes. 

Sombra extracts her hand. She makes a cute show of pulling Widowmaker’s pants back up, adjusting them so the waistband sits properly. “I should go see what she wants, eh?” 

Widowmaker doesn’t care what she does or doesn’t go do. 

Apparently satisfied with the distraction she’s caused, Sombra straightens her own clothes and turns to go. Her footsteps echo across the firing range, and the door creaks loudly as she opens it to leave. Widowmaker takes a long moment to collect herself, and then her weapon. She pushed the experience she just had from her mind entirely to return to target practice. 

Well, she tries to, but she’s all loose-limbed now; relaxed. And damn it if her next shot isn’t right in the money, a dead bullseye, not a single centimeter off in either direction. She’s annoyed that Sombra was right but the feeling is muted, muffled. It always is. 

**Author's Note:**

> i'm taking femslash february suggestions year round  
> send requests or prompts ➝ [here](https://curiouscat.me/deathtouch)  
> femfeb '20 masterpost ➝ [here](https://twitter.com/deathtouchxx/status/1223794127822839808?s=20)  
> follow me on twitter ➝ [here](https://twitter.com/deathtouchxx)  
> thanks for reading ✩°｡⋆


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